


Wild

by threeturn



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Werewolf Liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He might not be virtuous, he might not be wise, but he would not allow any man to make him his toy.</em> A werewolf story set in Regency Cheshire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild

**Author's Note:**

> This is the ninth installment of a 10-week/10-trope/10-pairing series with the extraordinary [disarm_d](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarm_d). My loving thanks to her and to the lovely [sophieisgod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophieisgod) for betaing; without their interventions, this story would be a far shabbier affair.

Harry was taking the Malik carriage home at Zayn's insistence, though he could perfectly well have cut through the spinney as he usually did. "Not when it's this dark, my dear fellow," Zayn had said firmly. "You'd break your neck." Their card game had indeed run on to a most disreputable hour, and now Harry was glad not to be picking his way through the dark. The wind was high for mid-June, and even in his upholstered seat Harry felt it in his bones.

Danny had just driven them round the wood when Harry heard the sound. A high desperate howling, perhaps half a mile away. "One of Zayn's dogs," said Harry to himself, and thought about dogs: their alarming theatrics, their savage loyalty, their bad habit of jumping up upon one's person. The howl came again, closer than before, and Harry began to feel that perhaps it was not a dog after all. It could not be a wolf, however, as there were no longer wolves in England. It was a fact he knew, though he would not go up to Cambridge until September.

The howl—for there it was again—was too despairing to be animal, too wild to be human. It was quite close now. Harry peered out the window. He could see almost nothing. Perhaps a shadow racing by, a blur of darkness more alive than the rest.

"We shall be home presently," Harry reminded himself. He moved to the exact centre of his seat, as far from each window as possible, and stayed there until he was safely home.

 

*

 

"Harry," said Lady Styles, "surely the view from the window does not hold such particular charm as to keep you from your tea."

Harry squinted across the lawn again at the gentleman making his hurried way up the drive, one hand on his hat against the breeze. "No, Mama," he said, "but there is no tea yet, so surely I must be excused for preferring to watch the new rector approach."

Gemma tugged at one of his coat-tails. "You needn't be goggling out windows at our guests, no matter how tiresome they may be."

"Mr Payne doesn't look tiresome," remarked Harry, "but I am sure he will be. Our last clergyman was exceedingly so."

"Do be kind to the poor man, Harry," said Lady Styles. "You will be leaving us soon enough."

"I shall be polite," Harry assured her. "I shall be most welcoming. I feel sorry for him, indeed. Imagine being a clergyman!"

"Imagine being a foolish chit of a boy, with less sense in his head than a pug," suggested Gemma.

Harry could vouchsafe no reply, for at that moment Niall entered to announce the rector's arrival. Mr Payne proved to be a pleasant, somewhat anxious-appearing man, in plain attire that was hardly _à_ _la mode_ , cheeks shaved so close they looked near-raw. He shook Harry's hand firmly and said something rather pretty about the kindness of his mother.

"My mother is indeed a paragon," Harry agreed, and Mr Payne blushed, as if Harry had been making mock of him. He seemed to find his ease when they were seated and Niall served tea, especially as her ladyship and Gemma kept up a flow of chatter about the rectory, the village, and the unseasonably chilly weather. "What a pleasant village is Church Hulme in any weather," Mr Payne observed, with more enthusiasm than originality.

"Thank you," Harry interrupted, "but it's awfully boring really."

"When we are not in London my brother is forever demanding to be entertained," Gemma explained, with a frown at Harry. "We returned from the Season a trifle early this year and he finds country life too quiet and retiring by half."

"I see," said Mr Payne. "Of course, young people are eager for amusement, and sadly such amusement as they find is not always the most wholesome."

"Harry is a dreadful harum-scarum," Lady Styles agreed. "Seeing to our properties will likely temper him eventually, but without a father's guidance a young man may run quite wild."

Harry, who did not mourn a father he had scarcely known before he had contrived to die of an apoplexy in Paris, calculated that Mr Payne could be no more than three or four years older than himself. "Do _you_ wish for amusement, Mr Payne?" Harry asked.

"Certainly not," said Payne, and his cheeks coloured once more. "Unless it be open-air exercise. I delight in a country walk."

Harry held his gaze. " _I_ delight in a ride."

"No doubt Mr Payne is more vigorous than yourself," Gemma suggested, raising an eyebrow at Harry.

Harry smiled sweetly back. "An admirable quality in a gentleman," he agreed, and watched Payne bite his lip.

"There are many enchanting walks in this part of Cheshire," observed Lady Styles comfortably. "You young people must show Mr Payne the duck pond."

"I should be very grateful," said Mr Payne, and looked, unaccountably, as if he meant it.

 

*

 

"The rector seems a pleasant gentleman," said Louis leadingly, when he was helping Harry dress for dinner. Louis always spoke out of turn, which was why Harry liked him. "Pleasant" meant that Louis thought him insufferable.

"Just underbred," said Harry, holding out his cuffs. "I saw a bit of dirt under one of his nails."

"Ah," said Louis, which meant he liked him better already.

 

*

 

Harry heard the howling again that night, and only by dint of curling himself very deeply under the covers did he feel himself secure enough to sleep. When he woke, it was very early morning, still entirely dark, and there was a strange wild scent in the air. In the close room it was overpowering, and Harry padded over to open the French windows. He'd only just got them open when the thing came crashing through.

It was a moment later, after it had borne Harry down upon the bed, its paw upon Harry's mouth, that Harry realised it was not a thing but a man, a man with the strength and smell of a beast. Harry heaved himself up in a bid for escape, realised at all once that the man was unclothed, and collapsed back upon the bed, shocked. He could see nothing of him but he'd felt the rasp of the hair on his chest, skin on skin, for in bed Harry was wont to wear smallclothes and no nightshirt. The man's hand—hand, not paw—was rough on Harry's lips and his nails sharp on Harry's cheek. Harry lay still, trembling. Surely it was a madman—he must ring the bell for Louis—Louis would save him. But the madman had him pinned so that Harry could scarcely move. Harry wriggled again, trying to come into contact with as little of the strange hot flesh above him as possible. The madman growled and moved his hand from Harry's mouth, his eyes shining in the darkness. Harry could still make nothing of his features except that his beard was thick and his shoulders powerful.

"Please don't," Harry managed, but his voice came out in an odd sort of squeak.

The madman tossed his head like a beast and dragged his hand down Harry's side. His nails cut into the flesh and Harry arched his back helplessly before he schooled himself to keep still. He mustn't struggle; it could make things worse. Rather he must exert his charm of manner. "Would you like a blanket, sir?" Harry asked politely.

This time the man snarled and leapt backward, crouching at the foot of Harry's bed. Harry sat up, crossing his arms across his chest. He could ring the bell now, but somehow he did not. Instead he offered the man a corner of the coverlet as soothingly as possible. But the man only ducked his head, snarled, and rose from the bed with a bound. He had the unconscious grace of an animal: swift, smooth, with no attention to his own nakedness. For a moment the dark shape was poised at the French windows, and then came the hollow shrill call of a bird, and it was gone.

Suddenly Harry's side burnt where he'd been scratched. He put a hand to it and felt the wetness of blood. His cheek hurt also, where the madman had broke the skin. He should ring for Louis immediately. He rose from the bed and went to the doors and peered out. Nothing, except for the pink edge of dawn in the sky, and the beginnings of conversation amongst the sparrows. Harry closed the doors and touched his scratch again. He sank back onto the bed without pulling up the covers. It was a chilly morning, surely, but Harry felt most curiously warm. He meant now to ring for Louis, but instead he put his fingers to his lips. They tasted of his blood.

 

*

 

In the morning, Louis dressed Harry's scratches, whistling in admiration.

"A loose nail," Harry said, although it felt wrong to deprive Louis of such an exciting story. Louis would be agog to solve the mystery; he might suggest a search party, or even fetching a constable. Indeed Harry did not know why he told no one; it was only that it all seemed a fever dream now, a nightmare shrunk in daylight to foolish fancy.

 _If there is word of any disturbance in the village,_ thought Harry, after a day in which he could not bring himself to mention the matter to a soul, _I surely must speak of it to Mama. He may be dangerous._ For he had come to think of his mad visitor only as _He._

But there was no word, no village tale of an escaped madman, and no howling in the night. Nonetheless Harry's sleep was restless. He dreamt of a paw on his chest, a beard against his neck, a tree's rough bark against his back, and woke up perspiring, a heaviness between his legs. He tried to think of nothing as he rid himself of it, only perhaps he pressed his fingers to the still-angry scratch at his side and remembered the smell and the taste of blood. _But I am Lord Styles,_ he reminded himself when it was done, and the next night he slept in a nightshirt, because it was civilised.

 

*

 

Mr Payne's first sermon a day later was more tolerable than Harry expected. It was uninteresting, of course, but not aggressively so. He spoke of new beginnings, and how with repentance one might wipe a soiled slate clean. Harry listened to at least a third of it and noticed that Payne was not entirely unattractive despite the limitations of his personality. His jawline was cut fine, and the manner in which he moved his mouth—

"Harry!" hissed Gemma. "He's finished; you needn't sit there yawping like a noddicock at Miss Lowe."

"I was not, at all," Harry informed her with great dignity, and rose to go. It was true that the young person in question had been sitting in the pew in front of him, but for once Harry had not been moved to imagine her in her shift.

At the church door, Payne was pink-cheeked and beaming, enthusiastically shaking hands with his congregants.

"A lovely service," Lady Styles told him, and Harry nodded his agreement.

"Indeed I thank you!" said Payne. "I do hope I see you all well."

"Blooming," said Harry, but when Payne turned his eyes to him Harry could not help the impulse to bring a protective hand to his cheek.

"You've been hurt," said Payne, and his eyes softened in concern.

"Just a scratch," said Harry. "A—a rose. Rosebush." He wanted to say he'd been shaving, but his mum and Gemma knew quite well he had no need.

"A pity," Payne said kindly, and turned back to Harry's mother.

"He has no family to speak of," Lady Styles remarked when they were back in their carriage, "but Lord Cowell recommended him most highly and I think he will suit."

"I think he's sweet," said Gemma. "Pity about his eyes. Did you notice, Harry?"

"Perhaps I am not so interested in staring at the eyes of clergymen as yourself."

"Perhaps you were too busy staring elsewhere," Gemma suggested.

"Harry," said her ladyship, "I don't want you mooning after Miss Lowe. Her grandfather was a tradesman."

"Yes, Mama," said Harry.

"There are a score of estimable young women in London to whom you may pay your respects when you have completed your studies."

"I look forward to it exceedingly," said Harry, without conviction. His mother was quite correct; he must be educated and he must make an excellent marriage; he was Lord Styles, after all.

"His eyes are _yellow_ ," Gemma whispered in his ear.

 

*

 

There was a shooting party and Lady Malik's ball and by the time he heard the howling again, a month had passed and it was full midsummer. The sound seemed the echo of a thing that had happened a very long time ago. Still, its effect upon him was electrifying. He could not move; he felt a strange heat coursing through his limbs; he remembered his dreams. Whether there was a connexion between the howling and his intruder he knew not, but the odd pained call brought nothing to mind so much as his madman's glittering eyes. Restlessly he turned in his bed, listening, and then finally rose to peer hopelessly from the French windows, looking for a dark shape that moved with a wild grace. It had been an exceptionally wet July, but perhaps the weather was turning; he felt half-stifled.

He returned to his bed, shaking his head, and lay with the blankets tangled about his feet. He felt the heat of his own wish for pleasure and, reaching under his nightshirt, found himself at full stand. He attempted to turn his mind upon the lady he'd danced with more than once at the Malik ball, thought of her slim waist under his hand and the grace of her steps, but now the howl was closer and the lady was no good, no good at all. The man had pushed him down, bent over him, and there'd been a pressure there. Just—there. Harry closed his eyes and remembered, and the howl came again, and eventually he slept.

 

*

 

The next day, Harry had a headache. The world was foul and empty, he thought, and the only thing to do was to feed the ducks. He was halfway down the path with a loaf of bread begged from Niall when he saw the new rector approaching from the bottom of the hill. Harry nodded to him and was about to continue onward, but Payne hailed him so excitedly that it seemed he had better wait.

Harry nodded politely while Payne remarked on the weather, and then explained his charitable errand; if Mr Payne liked, Harry would welcome the company—the word "welcome" pronounced rather dubiously, but Harry wished to be kind. He was quite sure that Payne did not wish to feed ducks. Only girls ever did, and Harry suspected they never said yes because of the ducks.

"I've just come to see her ladyship, in fact," the rector demurred. "Consulting her on a charity affair, you understand—"

"Of course," said Harry, unsurprised.

"—but the duck pond does sound charming—"

"You astonish me," said Harry, and waved the man to his side. They walked on, Payne adjusting his rapid stride to Harry's saunter. He was Harry's height or a trifle shorter, but then he did not wear boots with such an elegant heel as Harry did.

The duck pond was on the other side of the spinney, and Harry found Payne's look of pleasure when they came to the shining water surprisingly satisfying.

"Such a pond!" Payne cried. "Such willows! A most edifying sight."

"Quite so," agreed Harry. "And cut off from view as well."

"How convenient for those times when one wishes to retreat from the crowd and reflect upon the virtues." Payne's face shone with sincerity.

"Ye-es," said Harry doubtfully, and then, seized by a spirit of mischief provoked by those large and trusting eyes: "Moreover, should you make any confidential acquaintances, I recommend the duck pond as a most suitable destination."

Payne's face fell. "I fear I do not take your meaning."

"Do not, or must not?" asked Harry. He knew he was behaving badly, but his head did ache so, and he couldn't spot his favourite duck. "There's a lovely bit of clearing on the other side, only you must bring a blanket; you know how terribly grass stains a gown."

"I do not," said Payne, shocked. "Surely you would not compromise a young lady's reputation in so careless a fashion!"

"Oh, as to that," said Harry, "I must say I am not careless at all. Bread?"

He tore off a hunk for Payne, who rather mechanically began tossing it in. "I shall say nothing of this to your mother," said Payne, after a moment. "I am sure you are not yourself."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" asked Harry. "I usually am myself, entirely. It's so difficult not to be."

Payne looked at him, distressed. "It _is_ possible to change, sir. Even when one does not wish it."

"And why might I wish it?"

"To—please your mother?" ventured Payne.

"Has my mother been complaining of me again?"

Payne looked earnestly at Harry. "Your mother loves you dearly, but she fears lest you be distracted from your studies by—by—"

"Gaming? Drink? An unsatisfactory liaison?" Harry threw a morsel of bread into the pond so savagely that the ducks scattered from it.

"I cannot be certain," said Payne. "Only that she wishes you to be ready to take up the management of the estate when you are of age."

"I know," said Harry. "I know, I know."

Payne, evidently emboldened by this show of agreement, continued rapidly, "And your name—the sacred duty of bestowing it upon a young lady of virtue—surely it would be better to be continent, to restrain one's baser nature. Keeping apart from the fairer sex—I find it no difficulty, myself—"

"Don't you?" asked Harry, and Payne blushed and looked down. "Look here, Mr Payne, virtue is all very well, but when there is a young person to whom one is exceptionally drawn, one can make oneself sick trying to stay away."

"Have you tried?" cried Payne. "Can you truly say you have made every attempt—" but at that moment Harry leant forward in an attempt to pet a duck, tripped over a branch half-buried in the mud, and would have ended in the water had not Payne in a flash seized his upper arm and propelled him firmly upward. He had moved astonishingly quickly and his grasp on Harry's arm betrayed an enviable strength.

Startled, Harry turned to meet his eyes. Gemma was right; in this light they were a curious shade of brownish-yellow. A warm yellow, Harry decided, not at all off-putting, whatever Gemma might think. Payne was still holding his arm.

"My thanks," said Harry, and the words seem to stun Payne into action; he let Harry's arm go and stepped back, and for the first time Harry saw the hint of power in his shoulders under the ill-fitting morning-coat he wore.

"No matter," Payne returned, and hurled a bread pellet into the pond. There was Harry's favourite duck, the one with the purple stripe, coming to snap it up.

"At any rate, I suppose not," said Harry reflectively, and examined his boots for mud.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I suppose I have not tried," said Harry. "I have not set my mind to it."

They fed the remainder of the loaf to the ducks in silence.

 

*

 

That evening, after bidding Louis good-night, Harry was still thinking of Payne's admonishments with some displeasure. The man ought never to have embarked upon such a sermon—Harry had introduced the topic, to be sure, but had expected only a pretty confusion or perhaps a measure of masculine admiration in response. Payne was near to his own age; surely he could not be made of ice? Harry sighed in exasperation and deliberately unlatched the French windows, as if scoring a point. Should a violent madman feel inclined to pay him a visit, Harry would enjoy the diversion, because he was a man of the world—"a man of the world, sir," he imagined repeating to Payne in continuation of their argument, and dived under the covers in triumph.

It was the rattling of the casements that woke him in the dark, and the noise of a heavy body thudding against the window. Harry sat up, his mind a whirl of terror and anticipation. The familiar shape—seen only once but imagined time and again in Harry's idler hours—stood upon the threshold. From the smooth lines of his dark silhouette Harry could see that he was unclothed, and yet not shamefully so, for one could not imagine anything so civilized, so drearily human, as clothing upon that powerful frame.

"You came back," said Harry, when the man did not move. Ought he ask him his name? It was a discourteous inquiry when addressed to a gentleman not yet introduced, and yet perhaps some fine manners might be temporarily discarded when a visitor presented himself without an invitation and in such a pronounced state of _déshabille_. "My name is Styles," said Harry, in order to put the madman at ease. "And your own is?"

There was no answer, and Harry hurried to fill the conversational impasse. "Is it a fine night? Do you not find it a trifle chilly without—?" But Harry himself felt surprisingly warm for this time of night, and he trailed off. "Perhaps you would like some light refreshment," he tried; it would be awkward if the man agreed but perhaps he could creep down to the kitchen and see what was left in the larder.

The man made no reply to any of this, but Harry could hear his breath—deep and quick, with a rasp to it. "I hope you aren't getting a cold," Harry said sincerely. "Do you know, it's terribly boring here in the summer? I did hope you would come."

The man let out an even harsher breath at that and in one leap he was on the bed, crouching over Harry on all fours, so that Harry was caged between his limbs, his rough hand holding Harry's torso to the bed. Harry breathed carefully, trembling. He tried to make out the man's features but the man dipped his head to Harry's neck before he could discern anything but the beard. The man's hot breath was fearfully close now. He might truly do anything, might bite, suck, and yet he was only—sniffing. Nosing at Harry's neck, his throat, his ear, and all the while his big hand was pressing Harry down, his thumb moving restlessly, scratching at Harry through his nightshirt.

It was quite disgusting; no experience could possibly be more uncouth; and yet Harry hoped, absurdly, that his smell would not disappoint. He was frightened still, but the proximity of this man's body to his own had had the usual effect upon his excitable flesh. His fear was not only for what the man might do, but for what he himself might allow. "Am I all right, then?" he asked the man, weakly—for he felt a strange lassitude in all his limbs, as if such terrible strength as this man possessed might only be met with an abject submission.

To this the man only growled, bunching the neck of Harry's nightshirt in one fist and ripping it, collar to tails, so that the buttons tore free and bounced and Harry lay naked before him. For of a certainty Harry was naked, naked in a way that the man was not; in him a lack of clothing appeared his natural state, but Harry had been most violently uncovered. Quickly the man pulled at his smallclothes, ripping them free, turning him over so that Harry's stiff column of flesh was pressed to the mattress. Never had Harry been in so helpless a position, never had he been moved about with such impatient force, and when he felt the man's weight upon his back he moaned with the hot pleasure of it. Even up until a moment ago he had not been entirely certain what the man wanted from him, but the feel of his cock-stand dragging across his bum made the matter unmistakeable. Harry had known boyish fumblings at Eton, but this was the fat prick of a man, albeit a man almost half-beast—though what were men but beasts at such times, thought Harry, for surely he himself had held women thus roughly at the moment of crisis.

The man's cock was insistent at his bum, and Harry feared lest he attempt a union more complete, but then he snarled in discontent and fit his cock between Harry's thighs instead. Harry sighed in relief only slightly tinged with disappointment and clenched his thighs as best he could. Another growl of discontent and the man's hand was at Harry's mouth, insistent, and Harry understood. He licked a palm smelling of dirt and growing things and the man's own sharp scent, but it still was not wet enough, and the man's fingers went deep in Harry's mouth instead, prodding at his tongue. Harry sucked until the man's fingers were dripping, and when he took his hand away at last, Harry heard the sound of a wet hand on a cock. Then the man's prick was back between Harry's thighs and sliding, sliding easy, his whole weight pushing against Harry with each thrust, Harry's cock grinding into the mattress until he wailed with his need and the feel of the man's stiff prick between his legs. The man's mouth was pressed wetly to the back of Harry's neck, and Harry could feel the hard pressure of his teeth. He thrust insistently, relentlessly, with no apparent thought for Harry's pleasure. When he reached his climax, he bit, and the teeth broke the skin, and Harry felt a wetness trickling on his neck and wet between his thighs and wet beneath him where his own crisis had come.

The man lay heavily along his back and then rolled to the side. Harry turned, and saw his face in the first grey light of dawn. It was bearded, it bore the marks of a bone-deep exhaustion entirely unfamiliar to him, but Harry knew him immediately, knew him by the eyes.

They widened, yellow, in sudden alarm and then the face became more obviously the anxious countenance that Harry knew. Harry was too shocked to speak. Mr Payne gave a inhuman howl of distress, leapt, and was gone.

 

*

 

Harry managed to wait until the afternoon before walking down to the rectory. Payne might need time to collect himself, he thought. Certainly Harry himself was not easy in his mind and he was not the one who went about visiting young men in the small hours in a state of undress.

The maid-servant who answered the door told Harry that Mr Payne was indisposed and could not be disturbed.

"The poor man," said Harry promptly, and made a step toward the threshold so that she must needs step back. "How can he be ill when a young person so pleasant and obliging as yourself is within sight? Of course I shall not take but a moment of his time."

"But my lord," she cried, without acknowledging the compliment, "he told me most _particularly_ —"

"Did he say not even her ladyship was to enter?" Harry inquired. "Because I come with a message from her ladyship that concerns a matter of most urgent advantage to himself."

"My lord, I am so sorry. Oh sir—"

"Thank you," interrupted Harry, patting her gently upon the shoulder, and strode past her in search of the parlour. "Mr Payne," he called, and found the man sitting upon a settee with a cup of tea, shaved to an innocent pink as usual and wearing several layers of clothing. Harry smiled and closed the door behind him.

Payne jumped to his feet with that same ease of movement Harry had seen before. "I pray, sir, you will not allow me to take a moment of your time today; I am not at all well."

"Neither am I," said Harry, touching the sticking plaster at the back of his neck. "I passed a most extraordinary night."

"I didn't," said Payne immediately. "Went to sleep early; a headache, you know, and slept the night through. Most restorative. Although not restorative enough, as I remain indisposed. So indisposed I cannot receive visitors. Please accept my apologies."

"I shan't," said Harry firmly. "It isn't fair, when _I_ was so hospitable as to receive a visitor by night—twice. Hardly _comme il faut_. One shudders for my reputation."

"Dear me," said Payne, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at his temple, "I am sensible of the honour you bestow upon me by taking me into your confidence, but you need be quite sure I shall breathe no word of your indiscretions to a soul."

" _My_ indiscretions," Harry began, quite shocked. " _My_ indiscretions?"

Payne waved a hand. "A bit of youthful folly only, I am sure. It is a pity we are not all possessed of such youth, beauty, and position as must excuse far worse faults; most of us, you know, must guard against even the whisper of scandal, lest one lose one's reputation—one's place—one may be turned out if it is thought one has been—overfamiliar—"

"Hang it all," Harry cut in, in a furious whisper. "Your place is secure, I haven't the least intention of having you turned out, I only want to know what you—just— _why_ did it happen? _How_ did it happen? Is it a fit of madness that comes upon you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Payne sipped his tea, face stubbornly blank.

"Devil take it but you _do_ ," cried Harry, pushed to the limit of his endurance. "Do not sham it so. You—you stripped me, you _had_ me—"

"Be silent!" The words were uttered in a snarl so vicious Harry choked on his words. Payne had him by the arm, and a sharp wild scent was rising between them.

"You had me," repeated Harry, woodenly. "I waited for you and you came, and even now—" he turned his eyes to Payne's red mouth, caught a glimpse of the white teeth that had pierced his skin—"even now, with your stupid words and your stupid denial, I want you still. God help me, but I do."

Payne's whole body seemed to tremble, and then he released Harry so suddenly that Harry stumbled backwards. "Leave at once," he said. "You are mistaken."

At this insult Harry could but turn on his heel and go. When he opened the parlour door again in cold fury, the maid-servant was still in the corridor. She turned a frightened face to him; it betokened, thought Harry, a possible consolation.

"You look most fetching in that cap," Harry said, and waited for her to blush and smile. It was most disconcerting to see her face go blank instead. The appreciative regard of others formed no small portion of Harry's daily pleasures, and his mood was bitter in the extreme when he stalked off. Everyone, it seemed, was inclined to disoblige him.

That night, Harry latched the French windows tight. In the next moment, he heard a distant howl, and pushed a heavy trunk in front of the windows to boot. He woke in the night to the slam of a weight against the windows and the familiar fire swept through him. Yet he did not move. He might not be virtuous, he might not be wise, but he would not allow any man to make him his toy. He was Lord Styles, after all. Another dull thud, and then a whine. He waited, and pressed the wound at the back of his neck until there was silence from outside and his neck was throbbing.

All the rest of the night, even in his dreams, he was cold.

 

*

 

The weeks led inexorably into August. Harry went riding with Zayn, spent a week-end with an old school-mate, and took up his Latin studies again in preparation for Cambridge; this meant keeping Gemma company while she happily translated from Petrarch.

"Do try again with the Ovid," Gemma suggested on a morning when Harry had been particularly dull. "There are some unseemly bits; I should think they'd appeal to you."

"You are the one who ought to be going up to Cambridge," Harry burst out.

Gemma smiled at him. "You mustn't let Mama hear you being so unconventional."

Each Sunday Mr Payne conducted his sermons with the utmost propriety and without looking at Harry, and there was no howling in the night. Harry might, in fact, have begun to put the affair from his mind in an expectation that university would cure him of strange phantasms and unaccountable lusts, had not Louis informed him one morning, while spreading a choice of breeches upon the bed, that for weeks the village had been talking of a dangerous beast in the woods.

"What sort of a beast?" Harry asked, pointing at the pair that fit him most tightly.

Louis shook his head. "Some say it's a tiger, sir, brought back by Sir Malik from India—you know what an odd lot of animals he's got—"

"Only a lizard," Harry cut in. "A lizard from a curiosity shop in Manchester. And some dogs, and a cat, which is quite usual— _why_ must people go on so?"

"Meaning no disrespect to your grace's friend," Louis went on hastily. "Niall thinks it's a lion escaped from the zoological gardens, and pities it enormously, but I say it's a wolf."

"There are no wolves in England," Harry returned automatically.

"No more are there lions or tigers," said Louis. "The beast makes a horrid uncivilised noise like a wolf, and last month my mate down the pub saw a grey wolfish sort of thing _loping_ past the rectory, bold as you please, and the night before last, one of Mr Winston's sheep was left half-eaten with its belly torn open, begging your pardon, sir. Are you well, sir? You look quite green."

"Quite well, thank you," said Harry, who felt as if he were going to be sick.

"Don't you fret, sir," said Louis, with satisfaction. "They'll put a bullet in it soon enough." He peered at Harry more closely. "Would you like me to bring you a razor, sir?"

"Whatever for?"

"Your—beard, sir."

Harry laughed. "You know well I cannot grow one."

Louis shook his head. "Have you not looked in a glass these past two weeks?"

Harry put a hand to his chin, and felt an unfamiliar roughness.

"It is a miracle," he said.

"It is manhood, sir," Louis corrected.

 

*

 

Harry lay in bed that night in a fever of confusion. The thing was nonsense, it was impossible. One heard strange necromantic tales—stories woven from the stuff of nightmare—and yet they could not, must not be true. Louis was prone to gossip, and in such a small, slow village as Church Hulme, one could not blame the people for seizing upon any passing excitement. The pity of it was that such nonsense could keep him from his rest; he would count sheep, in order to lull himself into slumber. Only the procession of sheep passing through his mind's eye were haunted by a dark shape, and when one of the sheep convulsed and bled, Harry put a trembling hand to his scarred side and put the sheep firmly from his mind.

He slept a trifle, then woke, slept again and dreamt of the duck pond; sweetly the ducks sailed about the pond until the sound of a gunshot sent them flapping and scattering. "I must wake up," thought Harry in the dream, and heard again a gunshot, followed by a fearsome howl. He pulled himself by force from the depths of the dream, blinked and opened his eyes—and realised that the noise was no dream. Indeed, it was coming closer. Harry squeezed his eyes shut again, curled into a ball, and put his head under the covers, childlike, but he could not fail to hear the high sharp wails of animal distress. Or the scrabbling at his windows, the groan of the hinges as something thrust itself against the door.

"Go away," Harry muttered aloud, fists clenched. "Go away, go away, go _away_."

There was a dreadful sound, like the scrape of a sharp claw against glass, and then a voice. It was not entirely a human voice, for it was clogged with the coarse accents of an animal, but Harry heard, _knew_ , that it was saying, "Let me in."

Harry sat upright, shook his head as if the thing might see.

"Let me in," the terrible voice said again, and then, unmistakeably, " _Help_ me."

Harry sobbed aloud, rose from bed almost without conscious thought, and went to the windows to slip the latch.

The thing on the threshold was human and then it wasn't; it seemed to be shifting before his eyes, and now it fell upon him, huge, bestial, hairy, bringing Harry to the floor. Harry braced himself for the raking horror of those claws, but found himself moments later entirely unmolested. Rather the thing lay splayed upon the carpet, a dark panting mass. Indeed there was something wrong with the way it lay—something that reminded Harry of the helpless posture of Zayn's hound when she'd broken her leg on the hunt.

"You're hurt," Harry breathed, and stretched out his hand.

The thing snarled, and its silhouette seemed to blur, to smooth and shrink to something near human, and then roughen once more. The noise it let out now was pure pain.

"No," said Harry, "no, no," and he did what he'd never thought to do before: he lit a candle. What he saw was a living horror, a beast pulsing, shifting, before his very eyes, seeming to become all the more monstrous the more human it became. For beast was beast and man was man but to be both at once was surely the greatest nightmare of all. And Harry might have shrieked, might have run, had he not seen the blood trickling from the thing's arm.

"They shot you," Harry said, and put his hand to the wound. The blood oozed over his fingers, and the beast shuddered, contracted, and at last lay still. There on the carpet was the human form of Mr Payne. Thickly bearded, hairy in the extreme, but a man, and as he looked Harry full in the face his hand shot up with that preternatural speed to cover Harry's over the wound. He opened his mouth as if to speak but produced only a low, rattling gasp.

"Let me look at it," said Harry firmly. "Come now, sir, you must allow me to inspect the wound."

Payne closed his eyes and took his hand away. Harry peered at the torn flesh, and was surprised by how much relief he felt. "It only nicked you," said Harry encouragingly. "I'll rinse it and bind it, you'll see. Put your hand just there now."

Harry took the basin from the dresser and did his best to clean the wound. It was ugly indeed, turning Harry's handkerchief red, but the harm was not deep, and Harry bound it in strips from his nightshirt while Payne crouched before him unresisting.

"There, you see?" said Harry at last, when he'd tied off the binding into a lovely bow. "You'll be right as rain—" but he trailed off when he saw how Payne was looking at him.

"Don't let me—don't let me hurt you," Payne grit out, and then he was touching Harry with his good arm, touching him everywhere, his mouth, his neck, his chest, his prick that rose as if to meet him. Harry's head swam; he smelt blood and sweat and he swayed forward against Payne while Payne stroked him roughly, dry and relentless, forcing Harry's pleasure from him until he whimpered aloud. An animal moan from Payne answered him; the edge of his nail caught against Harry's shaft and Harry jerked with the hot shock of it and released.

He fell forward, his head against Payne's hairy chest, but Payne did not move to embrace him. He was still, like an animal fearing to move lest an enemy detect it. Then there were sounds coming from Payne's throat, sounds that formed themselves eventually into words. "I'm—sorry," he said. "I tried not to. I always—try—not to."

Harry lifted his head, looked into large sorrowful brown-yellow eyes. He said, to be reassuring, "I wanted you to," and then realised with some embarrassment that it seemed to be true.

"I hurt you," said Payne heavily.

Harry shook his head, and only then did Payne take his face in his hand, to hold it still.

"I did. It is the wretched hunger, the unholy passion. In the wake of the possession I may look to be a man, but I am not a man. The wolf is inside me still. I loathe it, and I cannot rid myself of it, not until I feed the hunger."

"So you fed it with me," Harry whispered. "I imagine it is now quite satisfied?"

Payne's face contorted in agony. "I hunger yet," he rasped, and pushed Harry backwards. Harry's naked back was pressed flat against the weave of the carpet, Payne looming over his prone body. Now Harry could see the thickness of his cock, the drop of moisture at the tip. Payne straddled him, cock swaying, a bead of his effusion falling to Harry's skin, and Harry arched up, desperate for its heat.

"I'm sorry," said Payne again, but the words were so muffled now Harry could barely make them out. "Don't let me," he might be saying, as he moved up Harry's body, his fingers at Harry's mouth. And then more desperately, " _Strike me from you_ ," and his cock was at Harry's lips and he was shoving it in.

Harry choked, tried to take it, met Payne's wild eyes as he drove his prick in deep. It was an insult, an invasion, and yet even as the tears spilled from his eyes Harry wanted it with a fierce hot joy he had never before imagined. His body began to twist in helpless pleasure; his hands scrabbled for purchase on Payne's body that he might bring him closer still. Payne seized one of his hands in his dirty fist and clutched it ardently. In Payne's face Harry read shame, triumph, despair, and all the while Payne's cock was thick and brutal in his mouth. Harry groaned around it, saliva sliding from his lips. The sounds coming from Payne were feral and broken. He pressed Harry's hand to his lips, covering it with fierce kisses, even as he thrust a final time and spent, his release coating the inside of Harry's mouth.

Harry sighed in satisfaction, tasting it. Payne muttered something indistinct and pulled his prick free, letting it trail over Harry's lips and chin before moving to kneel at his side.

Harry licked his lips, feeling quite dazed. "And you're a man now? That's how it works?"

Payne said, "I think I must be a demon. And you my angel."

Harry laughed at that and wiped his mouth.

"It's true," Payne said, and his brows knit in consternation. "An angel, and I sully you. I meant to keep you safe from me, I denied you, that you might be free—"

"You were most lamentably rude," Harry agreed.

"Were I not a man possessed, I would never have importuned you with such attentions."

"Thank heaven for that, then," said Harry. "How often does it happen?"

"When the moon is full or near full. Two nights, three nights in a month? I thought to make a new start here, and yet my wickedness has already claimed a victim."

"The sheep was a bad business," Harry agreed. "Did you murder any livestock tonight, at all?"

"I don't believe so." Payne swallowed. "You see, if I am bent upon serving a different sort of appetite, sir—"

"Quite," Harry agreed. "I am pleased to have rendered our farmers such assistance. Will you not call me by my Christian name?"

"Such a liberty is not in my nature."

"I know your nature," said Harry quietly. "My name is Harry."

"Harry," Payne muttered quickly, and looked searchingly at Harry. The force of his stare seemed to have physical weight. "Your eyes," said Payne. "I did not think it possible. My god, your eyes."

"You could write me a poem about them," suggested Harry hopefully. "I've always been told they're a lovely shade of green."

"Green," repeated Payne, and shook his head. "No. It cannot be."

"No poem?"

"I will look in the daylight," Payne said, nonsensically. He rubbed at his beard. "I remain monstrous. I must go."

"No," said Harry, but Payne rose to his feet. "Payne, I insist—"

"Liam," Payne cried, spitting the word out as if it were hateful to him.

It was only after he had gone that Harry realised Payne must have been telling him his name.

 

*

 

Five minutes before tea-time, Lady Styles informed Harry and Gemma that she had asked the rector to pay her a call. "I know it is a bit of a bore, my loves, but we must discuss the restoration of the chapel; I fear he may have some new-fangled notions."

"I doubt it," said Gemma, and returned to her book.

Harry felt quite weak at the news. Ought he beg off or find an opportunity to draw Payne into private conversation?

"And you will be here, Harry, of course," her ladyship added firmly. "The manor will be yours one day; you must begin to take an interest."

"Yes, Mama," said Harry, and rubbed his chin. He needed a shave; he needed one at least every other day now, but he could not accustom himself to the task.

A moment later, Niall announced the rector, and a clean-shaven, sombrely-dressed Mr Payne stood at the threshold, one arm looking suspiciously thick, as though a bandage might lie below his coat. His eyes flicked to Harry's immediately, but he betrayed no discomfort as he wished them all good afternoon. Harry found the ease of his pretence annoying in the extreme, and when their guest was seated Harry contrived to stumble against him, steadying himself with a hand on the arm of the chair where Payne sat, so that his mouth was at Payne's ear. "Liam," Harry whispered before he righted himself, and observed with pleasure how Payne's cheeks went pink.

Payne cleared his throat. "Surely your children are not interested in these architectural matters," he suggested to her ladyship, as Harry disposed himself upon a settee.

"Then we must teach them," returned Lady Styles.

"I like nothing better than a good string course moulding, I assure you," said Gemma.

"And me," Harry added instantly. "Have a sweet biscuit."

Mr Payne reached for the platter and pain flashed across his face.

"Why, Mr Payne, are you well?" Gemma asked.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr Payne. "Oh yes. A slight mishap with a falling water jug; I am so clumsy, you know."

Harry snorted, and turned it to a laugh.

"You needn't laugh at the poor man, when you are such a bumble-shins yourself, dear brother," Gemma remarked, and pushed the sweet biscuits closer to Payne.

"Well, you must take better care of yourself, Mr Payne," said her ladyship briskly. "We should not like to lose you, would we, Harry?"

"No, indeed," said Harry fervently. "Oh, no indeed."

"Especially as I lose _you_ so soon, Harry." There was a hint of sadness in her ladyship's countenance now.

The rector coughed; he seemed to have choked on his biscuit. "Does his lordship intend to travel?" His face was bland, but in his eyes Harry saw a hint of yellow.

"He goes up to Cambridge in two weeks," Gemma explained. "We'll all miss him terribly."

"So you're going away," Payne said to Harry. There was an edge of panic in his voice that perhaps only Harry could hear. Harry gazed back at him, feeling suddenly and unaccountably in the wrong. Of course he was going away. Everyone knew that. He would visit—Payne would wait for him—only he must not get shot anymore, and he must not make attempts upon Winston's innocent sheep—Harry bit his lip. He knew nothing, really. Nothing of how to keep anyone safe. Payne was still gazing at Harry, eyes troubled, and Harry realized he was waiting for him to speak.

"I shall be very clever when I return," Harry tried. "You will find me a stimulating conversationalist."

"No doubt," said Mr Payne, frowning. And then, with an effort, "I congratulate you. There is nothing so fine as a well-trained mind."

"I suppose," said Harry, exasperated. Payne was distressed; Harry could _smell_ it. He reeked of longing and of guilt. Harry looked at him and said, deliberately, "There are of course other sheep. I'd be surprised if I were missed."

Gemma kicked his foot. "Harry, what are you on about now?"

"For my part I shall miss you extremely," said Lady Styles. "But we must all bear our burdens, must we not, Mr Payne?"

Payne nodded. "Duty is not always easy. You will enjoy university greatly, my lord." His countenance was blank now, as if a veil had been swept across it, but his scent was so strong Harry could not bear it.

Harry banged his teacup down and rose. "You must excuse me," he said. "I've only just remembered—Zayn—I told him most especially I'd—"

Lady Styles looked startled, disapproving. "Harry, surely it can wait."

"No," said Harry. "It can't." He cast one more look at Payne and strode from the room.

 

*

 

Zayn was pleased to see Harry. His dogs were not. "Be still, Princess!" Zayn ordered, but she continued to growl, looking as fierce as was possible for a King Charles spaniel. "I'm sorry," he told Harry, "don't know what's got into her."

"You know I'm rubbish with dogs," Harry told him. "Always have been."

"Of course you're rubbish," Zayn agreed, "but she's always forgiven you before. Princess! George! Stop it at once!" For even the pug had begun to make an assortment of menacing sounds. Zayn shook his head. "I'll take them out," he said, but he had to fairly drag them by their collars to get them to the door.

When they were gone, Zayn looked Harry up and down and then folded him into an embrace. "Zayn," whispered Harry, feeling for no reason at all on the edge of tears. "What if I don't want to go up to university?"

"Of course you do," said Zayn. "You're a thoroughgoing rattle-cap and you want steadying." He went to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle. "This port is very fine."

"Yes, please," said Harry, and they drank until it was quite late, and he was leaning up against Zayn on the sofa in a most undignified manner, and Zayn was running his fingers through his hair and telling him old tales he'd heard from his nurse, long ago in another country.

The fire was burning low and Harry was thinking sleepily of Zayn's guest bedroom when a fearsome howl broke through the stillness. He jolted upright, ignoring Zayn's grumbling, and listened. There it was again.

"Zayn," said Harry, "Zayn, I must go."

"Why?" Zayn groaned, but his eyes fluttered open. "What's that noise?"

"Someone's dog," said Harry hastily. "Or some other quite civilized animal. Not a wolf."

"There are no wolves in England," Zayn agreed, and yanked at Harry with one hand. "Come here."

Harry let Zayn pull him close, examine his face as the howl came again. "Your eyes look quite yellow in this light," murmured Zayn. "Funny thing."

"How—curious," said Harry, but his heart was beating so loudly he thought Zayn must surely hear. "Zayn, I must go, I must return home."

Zayn shrugged. "I'll ring for Danny then; he'll take you."

"No!" Harry cried. And then, softer, "I'm sorry, but no thank you, Zayn. I will walk."

"It's not safe," said Zayn, alarmed. "There have been strange reports—"

"It's safe for _me_ ," said Harry. "Zayn, please, you must believe me, I know it is safe for me."

"Harry," said Zayn gently. "Harry, let me go."

Harry realised he had Zayn's hand in his, was pressing so hard the knuckles were red when he released it. "I'm sorry, Zayn," he said. He thought he might be on the edge of tears.

"I'm ringing for Danny," Zayn decided. "You're in no condition."

Harry nodded, sniffling. He let Zayn bundle him into the carriage. Surely, he thought, Payne would be waiting for him. It was the thought of him that kept Harry steady half the drive home, steady until Harry heard the howl again. It was a cry of anger and loss that made his whole body tremble. Harry peered from the window and saw a shape in the darkness at the edge of the wood.

"Stop the carriage!" Harry called to Danny. "Stop it at once!"

The carriage stopped with a rattle, and Harry opened the door.

"Is aught amiss, sir?" asked Danny from the box. The horses were shuffling nervously.

"Fine," said Harry. He could hear a rasp in his own voice that had never been there before. The carriage door was still swinging open and one of the horses whinnied—a high, distressed sound. The night air was warm. He could smell the horses' fear and Danny's irritation. He must return to the carriage at once. Only—was that a pair of eyes glowing yellow in the trees?

"Liam!" Harry called. "Liam!"

He heard a rustle in the undergrowth. There was a pain in Harry's limbs, a pain and a strength and a knowledge he had never asked for. He looked back up the road, but Zayn's house was no longer visible. The heat seemed to roll from the wood in waves. Harry walked straight off the path into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> You can read tropegate's previous installments [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/tropegate). The very last tropegate fic will be announced on our tumblrs, [valencing](http://valencing.tumblr.com) and [onedisarmed](http://onedisarmed.tumblr.com). My final thanks to [Rave](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rave), who kindly allowed me to use her portrait of Harry in the [tumblr post](http://valencing.tumblr.com/post/101642219237/tropegate-week-9-lirry-werewolves) for this fic and who got me interested in Regency Direction in the first place.


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